Angst
by Poiniard
Summary: The short story of an angst-ridden good drow exile and other parodies
1. Angst

Certain races appearing in this story are © WotC. They are used without permission and for entertainment purposes only. All reviews are welcome.  
  
ANGST  
  
Markessa was an elf-maiden, and she was stunningly beautiful. Most elf- maidens were short and slim, but Markessa was tall and exceptionally well- endowed. Her elven chainmail hid little of her scantily-clad, athletic form, yet it magically protected her as well as the bulkiest hauberk. Her long, golden hair and sparkling blue eyes were the envy of every lass in the village.  
  
She looked around the table at the other adventurers gathered there in the Inn of the Whistling Wench. "Every adventuring party needs a name," she said. "What should we call ourselves?"  
  
Raj simply shrugged. He was a beady-eyed little halfling who claimed to be a first-class burglar and tomb-robber. Markessa had allowed him to join her adventuring party a little hesitantly. He had all the gear- thieves picks and tools, plenty of rope, flasks of oil and holy water, grappling hooks. He even carried a ten-foot pole, on the off chance that one day Markessa would let him touch her with it. But his leather armor (which was spanking new) appeared to have been let out a bit to accommodate his sizeable belly. On top of that, his feet always smelled, and his sideburns always smelled of pipeweed.  
  
"Grim, what do you think?" Markessa asked.  
  
Grim was a giant of a man. He was as strong as an ox, and twice as smart. Like all of his people, his hair was long and braided, and he had a beard that was fire-engine red. He wore a plaid kilt, belted at the waist with a silver buckle. A wide variety of weapons hung from that belt- throwing knives, hand axes, clubs. His weapon of choice, though, was a great two- handed battle axe, which he leaned against the wall. The thing was as tall as a man, and must have weighed twenty stone. But it had a wicked-looking edge.  
  
The barbarian answered with a grunt. In fact, he said little during the whole planning session there at the table. Instead, he did nothing but down tankard after tankard of cheap, local ale and eat roast fowl, almost whole. The others simply could not believe how much the man ate, but the serving girl kept bringing it. Every time the buxom lass approached their table, the barbarian would leer at her and lift up his kilt, perhaps as some sort of northman mating ritual. By the time he'd finished his fourth plate, the innkeeper had run out. So fast did he consume his provisions, the cook just simply could not keep up. The wench started bringing him half-cooked chickens with some of the feathers still on them, but Grim didn't seem to mind.  
  
"Well, we can think up a name later," Markessa said, not to be discouraged. "Surely, once our exploits become widely known, the local populace will lovingly bestow some fitting name upon us, which we will humbly accept."  
  
The fourth member of their party sat in the shadowy corner with his back to the wall. Despite the summer heat, he kept his black cloak drawn tightly about him. This was Arindax, a fearsome drow sorcerer from the legendary pit of despair known as The Vault. Like all those of his race, Arindax was slim and lithe, yet deceptively strong. His skin was ebony black, although in certain lighting conditions it seemed more of an indigo blue. His unkempt hair was pure white, and his eyes were lavender.  
  
But Arindax was unique among the drow of The Vault, in that he was goodly and kind-hearted. As soon as his training at the Academe Arcanix was complete, he had fled the city of the dark elves, seeking solace and understanding among the more benign folk of the surface world. He was driven by some deep, inner struggle to overcome the angst of his horrific upbringing, but Arindax was determined to find acceptance among the people who so rightly feared and despised him for his heritage. "So," he said in his menacing voice, "what is the plan?"  
  
"After being lost for untold centuries, the tower of Dweomerfix the Mad Wizard has finally been found. It is just waiting at the heart of the Dismal Swamp for some brave crew of treasure-seekers to plunder it. But first, we must find the Baron of Wintervale and free his people from the strange curse which has befallen their lands. Then, the baron will give us his map to the tower."  
  
"Are you sure we can do this without a cleric?" Raj asked, bravely. Adventuring clerics were always hard to find. For some reason, most priests seemed to prefer the safe surroundings of their cloisters to the dangerous life of an adventurer. And those few who did take up the profession were invariably the most insufferable of the lot, zealous fanatics who took every available opportunity to preach the superiority of their ways.  
  
"Don't worry about it," Markessa assured him. "We're sure to find plenty of healing potions along the way. But first, we will have to journey a days ride southward, to the town of Greydeep, to purchase provisions." The others nodded. That certainly sounded reasonable.  
  
The journey to Greydeep passed uneventfully. The roads in that part of the kingdom were well-kept. All the farms they passed were prosperous, and all the merchants were honest. At last, they came to the walled city of Greydeep, jewel of the continent. A single guardsman stood there beneath the shadow of the gate, wearing the livery of the city. They knew that because the same symbol was visible on the numerous pennants flapping in the breeze above the gate.  
  
"If they charge a tax to enter," Raj said quietly to the others, "then I'm not paying. I'll wait until night-time and scale the walls."  
  
"The rest of you wait here," the elf-maiden said. "I'll go find out." She loosened her sword in her scabbard and loosened the lacings on the front of her tunic. Markessa marched straight up to the guardsman and hailed him. "Hail, guardsman," she said.  
  
"Who seeks entry into the great city of Greydeep?"  
  
"We are but four noble adventurers," Markessa answered.  
  
The guardsman eyed her. Then he looked her up and down again. He nodded. "You can pass," he said. He looked back at her companions, who stood waiting a little way down the road. Then, the guardsman frowned, and pointed straight at Arindax. "DROW!" he exclaimed.  
  
Without warning, a single arrow sped from the nearest guard tower, striking the dark elf squarely in the heart. Arindax slowly gripped the slender wooden shaft protruding from his chest. He stared at it in shock. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as he turned his lavender eyes to face his friends. The stunned look on his face asked, "Why?" Then, the kindly drow pitched forward into the mud.  
  
"No, wait!" Markessa cried. "He's a GOOD drow!"  
  
But it was too late. The alarm went up, and archers of the city watch appeared all along the battlements. A dozen more arrows thudded into the already-dead body of the drow sorcerer. The other adventurers simply stared at his corpse in shock and amazement.  
  
Their companion lay face down in the mud before the gates of the city, dead. All that could be seen was his fine piwafwi, feathered with arrows, and his boots sticking out. Then, the archers on the city walls turned their attentions to the drow's companions. Arrows began to rain down among the adventurers. The others turned and fled, the pudgy halfling leading the way. 


	2. Parody

This was just a short parody written to poke fun at a certain Old Mage, and give gnomes a little bit of the respect they so deserve. Some characters mentioned in this story are © WotC. They are used without permission and for entertainment purposes only. All reviews are welcome.  
  
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"These are not the usual smokepowder pistols we sell to pirates and first level adventurers," said the gnomish black marketeer. "That crap is just the export version. We keep the good stuff for ourselves. Here, lemme show ya." The little mercenary opened one of a dozen large crates standing nearby and pulled out a strange, metallic-looking weapon. "The AK-47 assault rifle. Air cooled, gas-powered, 7.62 millimeter. Fires off thirty rounds a second in full auto-" He paused in mid-sentence. "Whatsa matter?"  
  
The dwarf king wore a puzzled look. "Well, it's just- the way you are speaking. I mean, I thought you gnomes all talked- backwards-like."  
  
"Judge me by my size, do you?"  
  
"Yeah, like that."  
  
The gnome chuckled. "Naw, we just do that to confuse the Harpers. Keeps 'em guessin. And the chicks all think it's cute." He shrugged. "Now, do you want the stuff, or don'tcha?"  
  
"Oh, we'll take it," answered the dwarf. "How many do you have?"  
  
"I can getcha a truckload, er, I mean a wagonload. Ten cases, plus ammo. Enough for a whole battalion of dwarves." The little green man leaned against a half-covered crate of stolen VCR's and took a Cuban cigar from his breast pocket. He nodded to his men, and devious looking gnomes began moving the crates of illegal arms over to the loading dock. He looked over at his stocky, bearded customer. "Eh, you look confused again, yer majesty."  
  
The dwarf bowed apologetically. "I thought the gods didn't let technology like this work on Toril?"  
  
The gnome shook his head and lit his cigar. "Naw," he said, puffing. "That's just a load of bunk the Magister puts out. Him and his Chosen try to keep a tight lid on it, snuff out anybody who uses our stuff. That's why we don't usually export these babies."  
  
The dwarf went over a picked up one of the otherworldly weapons. "We'll take 'em. How much?"  
  
"Fifty grams of uranium"  
  
"Deal."  
  
The gnome arms merchant and the dwarven king shook hands, and in moments a dozen bare-chested dwarven laborers appeared and started unloading the crates. The gnome removed his beret, and took another puff on his exotic- smelling stogie. "Tell me, dorf," he said. "Whatcha gonna do with all this illicit firepower?"  
  
The dwarf scowled and looked the gnome straight in the eye. "We're gonna get the elves back for the Two Towers."  
  
The gnome nodded sympathetically. "Yeah, I saw that too." A sudden thought occurred to him, and he went over to the stack of VCR's. "Speaking of which, yer majesty, can I interest you in a video player? I'm told that Elminster himself has quite a collection of videos. Watches 'em all the time."  
  
"So that's why Elminster is always too busy to save the Realms!" 


	3. Forget the Realms

Two monks were sitting in the cafeteria at Candlekeep late one night.

"Heya, old gnome," said Stater, putting his tray down next to his friend. "Working hard, or hardly working?"

Waldor, ignoring the insult, just nodded, thumbing through the stack of scrolls in front of him. "Working," he answered.

"You look busy."

"Busy, yes," Waldor said. "And worried."

"Worried? About what?" Stater asked.

Waldor adjusted his spectacles and glanced over at his friend. "I think the Realms are coming to an end."

Stater blinked. "Impossible. The Roll of Years goes on for centuries yet."

"True," Waldor admitted. "But have you seen any of the recent news?"

"Afraid not," Stater replied. "I've been cataloging ancient elven pottery styles from the early Earlannian period." He sighed. It wasn't the most interesting job in Candlekeep. "So, you're in Current Events, now?"

"Yes," Waldor said. "Old Fender's been on sick leave since he got back from Maztica, so I've been asked to pick up the slack- in addition to my usual duties."

"So, what is it? Why are you worried?"

"It's these news reports. All across Faerun, Realms-Shattering-Events are occurring, with ever-greater frequency and severity. First, there was the Time of Troubles. Then, there was the Horde. But in recent years, we've seen the destruction of Cormyr, the return of the Shade, the Rage of Dragons, the Threat from the Sea. Now, we have drow who aren't evil, Harpers who aren't good, and Red Wizards reduced to peddling magic on streetcorners."

"Things do seem to be getting worse," Stater said.

"But there's more. History seems to be going back and forth in chaotic fashion. First, Bane was gone. Now, he's back. First, the elves were in Retreat. Now, they're back. All these reversals in a remarkably short span of years."

Stater nodded thoughtfully. "I see what you mean. Almost as if the gods can't make up their minds."

"And there have been fundamental changes to the very laws of the cosmos. Can you remember a time when people could cast ninth-level spells?" Waldor asked. "And when was the last time you heard anyone calling himself a magic-user."

"That's right," Stater said. The old monk raised his eyebrows in alarm. "I distinctly remember a time when a wizard would never wear plate mail. And now, we have these…what do you call them…_sorcerers_, who can even cast spells without spellbooks."

"And that's not the worst of it," said Waldor, lowering his voice.

"What?"

"I've heard some terrible prophecies- just rumors, mind you- about things called _controllers_ and _strikers_, and other such legerdemain terms." Waldor shuddered as if a chill had come over him.

"In my day, we called them fighters and thieves," said Stater, shaking his head. "I guess we're just two old-fashioned grognards."

"All of the old guard is passing away," Waldor continued, worriedly. "Azoun, Vangerdahast, Rhauntides. Men like that could've come back, if they'd really wanted to, but they don't any more. I've even heard old Elminster might be gone for good, soon."

"Perish the thought."

"There was a time when most folks would've been _glad_ to see the Old Sage kick the bucket, but now I'm not so sure. I think he's left for greener pastures."

"It's sad, really," agreed Stater. "It used to be a young adventurer had a place in the world, albeit his own little corner of it. But now, if these things come to pass…"

"The Realms just won't be the Realms any more."


End file.
